


Where the Mountain Touches the River

by DebraHicks



Category: Rat Patrol
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebraHicks/pseuds/DebraHicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War and honor can demand unexpected sacrifices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Mountain Touches the River

The sun was easing over the horizon, turning the sky glorious shades of blue and pink. As many times as Dietrich had watched sunrise in the desert, it never failed to move him. It wasn’t a bad sight for a dying man’s last view.

Captain Hans Dietrich shifted on the sand. He had lived through the night; the pain and shock held at bay by the last of his kit’s morphine. There would be no similar reprieve from the heat and thirst that would follow the sunrise. That thought brought a macabre chuckle. A glance at the blood dripping steadily from the mangled flesh of his leg, as well as that trickling down his shoulder told him he would probably be dead from blood loss before the heat could get him. At least, he hoped he would be. Dying of thirst was a slow, painful business. 

“Cap…tain.”

Dietrich’s gun came up, his head snapping sideways to meet the gaze of his oldest adversary, Sergeant Sam Troy. Troy was propped against the front of the overturned staff car, only a few feet from where Dietrich rested against the door. He didn’t fire. The amount of blood staining Troy’s uniform told Dietrich he was no longer a threat. 

Dietrich felt he should have been angry, should have fired anyway. Here was the American responsible for so many of his defeats, part of the force that was driving the Afrikacorps toward the sea. The man partially responsible for Dietrich’s death. But there had never been that kind of feeling between them, that kind of hate. There was also certain symmetry – from what Dietrich could see, he could claim equal responsibility for causing Troy’s death.

“Anyone else?” Troy whispered.

“No,” Dietrich shook his head. “We are the only ones left, Sergeant.”

From the corner of his eyes he saw Troy nod, more to himself than to Dietrich, as if accepting the same impossibility of rescue that Dietrich had only a moment before acknowledged. The battle had been fought over hundreds of miles, leaving thousands of wounded. Their own little piece of hell had been on the edge of it; leaving the violated desert littered with burning vehicles hundreds of yards apart. Dietrich’s own vehicle had burned, taking his driver, radio, ammunition and water. With the last of his strength he had crawled the impossible fifty yards to the nearest wreck, a tank, only to find the same situation.

“Are you mobile, Sergeant?”

“Maybe.”

“Come closer,” Dietrich ordered.

“Why?” Troy’s voice carried his usual amused defiance.

Dietrich took a minute to think of an answer. “Perhaps I can help.”

“Nothing to do.” Even as Troy said it though, he tried to shift closer. 

It was too much. With a harsh cry of pain Troy toppled sideways, landing in a curled position next to Dietrich’s uninjured leg. In the growing daylight Dietrich could see Troy’s wound now. Massive stomach wound. The sight confirmed what Dietrich had suspected. 

Trying to hold his shattered leg still, Dietrich reached out and pulled Troy around until his head rested on Dietrich thigh, though he stayed curled on his side. Tears ran from Troy’s closed eyes but he was completely silent. Only when he was still did he take a sharp, short breath. For a long time there was only the sound of harsh breathing from both men.

“Water?” Troy finally asked.

“None.”

Troy shifted to look up at Dietrich. “You?”

“We are in a similar situation, Sergeant.”

Dietrich thought of lighting another cigarette but knew he would not be able to smoke it, his mouth was too swollen, his lips to dry to even hold it. Vaguely, Dietrich wondered at finding Troy next to him. In the tens of thousands of soldiers, over hundreds of miles of baked sand, it should have been impossible for them to be here together. He wasn’t surprised though. Despite being enemies, they had saved each other from slavers, insane officers and hostile locals, developing a strong mutual respect in the middle of the hell. They had helped each other in life, now they would help each other in death. 

Troy began to rock with the pain, sobs getting passed his throat no matter how hard he tried to fight them. For Dietrich the agony from his ruined leg had faded into dizziness, darkening vision and the cramp of drying muscles. A minute later, the first scream forced itself through Troy’s barriers. Dietrich jerked, the harsh sound drawing his attention from his own hell. 

Troy’s screams faded into whimpers, and Dietrich instinctively put his hand on Troy’s shoulder. Looking down at the pistol in his lap, he focused his wandering concentration on the weapon. There was one thing he could do for both of them. He automatically popped the clip. 

Dietrich didn’t think there was anything left to feel despair over. One bullet. One. A single measure of release. 

His eyes raked down Troy’s body to his empty holster, searched the bloody sand. Nothing, no other weapon, not even a knife. One bullet.

A sense of guilt hit him as he realized that he would be leaving Troy alone. Replacing the clip, ignoring Troy’s choked sobs, Dietrich raised the gun to his head. Troy fell silent. Dietrich looked down, hoping that perhaps Troy had died first. 

Troy was staring at the gun in Dietrich’s hand, then his too-aware gaze flicked to Dietrich. Even had he been able, Troy would have never begged with words, but his eyes said it all. Dietrich closed his eyes. There was only one bullet. He didn’t want to die in inches, didn’t want to feel the life cooked out of him by sun and lack of water, didn’t want ….

“One,” he whispered, eyes locked with Troy.

“Cap…” The expressive eyes now held understanding and acceptance. Troy forgave him. He watched Troy choke back another scream, burying his face against Dietrich’s leg to do it. Troy would die. Alone. In agony. 

Dietrich put the gun to Troy’s back, over where his heart rested – pulled the trigger.

For a lifetime he sat there, one hand still resting on Troy’s back, the gun in his other hand. Finally, he let the gun fall, tugged Troy a little more onto his leg. His fear of dying slow and alone was gone, destroyed by the act of compassion he had granted Troy, an act that he knew would have been returned if possible.

Dietrich didn’t hear the jeep, didn’t see the other man until a pair of boots suddenly appeared in his fading vision. Tilting his head back against the hot metal, he looked up, unsurprised to find Sergeant Moffitt standing over him.

Moffitt knelt in the sand near Troy, a thousand emotions going across his normally stoic features; sorrow, confusion, anger. With a savage move, he snatched the gun off the ground – felt the empty weight. Moffitt popped the clip. After a few heartbeats he glanced at Dietrich, then at Troy. Dietrich watched as understanding overcame the anger. Moffitt took a deep breath, nodded to Dietrich. 

Gently, Moffitt eased Troy’s body out of his grasp. “We would have never found you if not for the shot.”

A second later Moffitt’s hand slipped behind his head. The cool metal of a canteen touched Dietrich’s lips, bringing the promise of life. Any thoughts of his regained future were momentarily lost under the sorrow over Troy’s death. As Moffitt moved away though a slight smile lifted Dietrich’s bleeding lips; he could almost hear Troy bragging that he had saved Dietrich even after he was dead. Dietrich once more shifted his hand to Troy’s shoulder, conveying his gratitude.


End file.
